


Perception

by Maloreiy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Extended War, Gen, Hogwarts Era, S&R:CRW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 06:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14710472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maloreiy/pseuds/Maloreiy
Summary: When Hermione is assigned to tutor Greg Goyle, he learns more than he'd ever guessed he would.2nd Place Winner of Round 2 of the 2018 Death by Quill Writing Challenge, hosted by The Slytherin Cabal.





	Perception

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [TheSlytherinCabal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSlytherinCabal/pseuds/TheSlytherinCabal) in the [DBQ2018Round2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2018Round2) collection. 



> This story was originally written for Round 2 of the 2018 Death by Quill Writing Challenge, hosted by The Slytherin Cabal. The theme was **Confundo (Confusion)** , and the pairing/characters I chose were Hermione Granger & Gregory Goyle. All stories originally had a word limit of 3500 words so the words had to be cut down to fit. This is now the full version.
> 
> This story won 2nd place out of 9 remaining competitors, and allowed me to move on to Round 3. See my other works for my Round 1 and my Round 3 Entries.
> 
> Once again, a thank you to my alpha, Ariel Riddle who helped me talk through some of the scenes for this story, and made some wonderful suggestions that really made this little story more compelling.

   

 

_His heart froze._

_He probably wouldn't have noticed her if it wasn't for her hair. She was moving carefully, hidden low in the long grasses, likely collecting the dittany that he knew her group was low on._

_Dittany only grew in a few remote areas, and was the reason he was watching the South side of this particular mountain._

_A few curly locks that escaped the confinement of her hood twisted about in the gentle breeze, drawing his attention and tickling his memory._

* * *

**_Much Earlier_ **

He didn't know what the professor was thinking, assigning Granger to him. It ought to have been someone from his own House, like Theo. He would have even settled for an easy-going Ravenclaw.

Instead, he had the bushy-headed know-it-all, the Mudblood who thought she was better than everyone else because she always studied ahead in the book and scored the highest marks on all the quizzes.

He scowled just thinking about her, irritated at not only having to spend the next few weeks regularly in her company, but also sneaking about, because Draco would throw a fit if he heard about the situation.

Not the fact that he needed tutoring, of course. That could hardly be a surprise to anyone, Greg thought bitterly.

But Draco would be furious that one of the Gryffindors he most loved to hate was single-handedly responsible for whether his senior Beater would be able to continue playing Quidditch.

Professor Flitwick had made it clear that if Greg didn't show up to his tutoring sessions, not only could he be removed from the team, but he could fail his entire year.

Personally, Greg didn't really see the point of the tutoring.

For a Slytherin, he didn't really have that much ambition. He already knew what he was going to grow up to be: Draco's right-hand man. Maybe his left-hand, if he screwed up along the way, which would greatly displease his father.

He was the 'next generation,' Goyle Sr kept reminding him, and school should be used for setting alliances early. He was particularly insistent that Greg secure his position with Draco, who would no doubt grow up to be a very powerful wizard.

Well, right-hand or left-hand, Greg doubted Draco expected him to be good at Charms and Potions and Transfiguration. His value was rather more in his size and his ability to follow orders.

But he had to go meet with Granger anyway, and that put him in a cranky mood.

When he arrived at the table in the library, hidden away from prying eyes, he was relieved to see that, like him, she was alone.

So she hadn't told Potter and Weasley.

Idly, he wondered if she was Potter's right hand or his left. Unless maybe  _she_  was the head, and  _they_  were the hands. His mind twisted a bit at that confusing thought, and he scowled out of habit.

She looked up from where she was writing on a parchment and greeted him with a pained smile on her face, indicating for him to take a seat.

The chairs in the library always seemed too small for him, making Goyle feel clumsy and out of place. But it was better than looming over the much-smaller Gryffindor, so he sat gingerly on the nearest one, hoping he wouldn't have to stay long.

When she tried to make small talk to break the ice, he didn't answer her.

He was a man of few words. Or so he liked to think.

Being a man of few words was better than being dumb, which is what most people thought he was.

Including the swot in front of him.

The scowl on his face didn't change as she lectured him, painfully, on a variety of subjects. When she made him pull out his wand, he half-heartedly attempted the spells, and enjoyed the way her face started to scrunch in frustration.

He imagined that her hair grew frizzier the more irritated she became, and the picture of her with enormous hair almost made him smile.

"Look," she said, finally fed up with him, "we're not going to get anywhere if you aren't even going to try."

"I  _am_  trying," he lied.

"You are not! You're barely listening, you don't answer any of my questions, and you don't make any of the corrections I'm telling you to," she huffed.

When he didn't respond to that, she eventually just sighed and told him to pick up his wand and start again.

Figuring that he didn't want her to quit on the first session, because the professor would surely make him miss the next Quidditch match, he actually did as she bid.

And he failed even more spectacularly.

The lump of goo that had been a piece of parchment and was  _supposed_  to be a feather, stared at him, taunting him with its blankness.

Granger was scowling now. "You did that on purpose."

And like always, that really made him mad. Trying was always worse, because it just reminded him that no matter what he did, he was never going to be a proper wizard.

Thank Merlin he had good breeding, was what his father would always say.

Not a particularly comforting thought, though, when faced with a girl with perfect wandwork and no breeding to speak of.

"I'm just stupid," he said, the words sharp as he forced them out through his gritted teeth.

She frowned at him. "Of course you're not," she said, but he could hear that the words were insincere.

"I know what people say about me. Everyone thinks it, so it must be true."

He glared at her, daring her to protest—to expose her lies.

She sighed and set her wand down. "People say things, it doesn't make them true. It just makes them arseholes."

He was surprised to hear that word come out of her mouth. He was more surprised at the bitter edge to her voice.

"They say I'm always confused," he said, acidly, "like a wizard who was 'hit with a Confundus that never seems to wear off.'"

He saw her blink at the phrase, as if she was trying to remember where she'd heard it before.

That had been Weasley, actually. She wasn't wrong; Weasley  _was_  an arsehole.

When she went to speak, he interrupted by quoting her own response at her. "'Well, he's dumb as a box of rocks, and twice as ugly.'"

He saw the moment she remembered that conversation. Her face turned red and her mouth opened in embarrassment. Obviously, they hadn't known he'd been walking just behind them in the corridor as they'd left Potions class.

"I—I'm sorry," she said, lamely. "I should never have said that."

 _Where you could hear it_ , he mentally added, because that was what she really meant.

He wondered if she'd still use the word 'arsehole' to describe herself. Probably not.

It wasn't like he hadn't heard it all before, but it still struck a nerve.

And now she thought she was going to tutor the 'box of rocks.'

He did not accept her apology.

For several moments he watched her as her face turned different shades of red and she stared down at the table. He was strangely pleased that he'd managed to shake her a little bit.

When she finally looked back up at him, he was surprised to see renewed determination in her eyes.

He felt the tiniest quiver of fear at her expression. That must be how she kept Potter and Weasel in line.

"We're going to experiment with learning methods," she said, her voice firm and clear. "Everyone's brain works differently, so we're going to figure out what works for yours. If you can remember exact words from a conversation, you can remember a spell. If you can fly a broom and aim a Bludger, you can control your movements enough to use your wand." She nodded with finality at her words. "Yes, that's what we'll do."

He was so taken aback at her enthusiasm, that he actually answered her odd questions when she started peppering him with them.

True to her word, each session they tried something new.

To help him remember dates and the names of famous wizards, she wrote rhymes. To help him understand events and concepts, she had him draw pictures. They made up ridiculous stories about Potions ingredients, so he could remember what each one did and what it was for.

She even had him write his letters over and over again, claiming better penmanship would get him higher marks.

It took several weeks, but he eventually gave up fighting her.

To his surprise, he found he actually enjoyed their secret meetings in the library.

Whenever he made a mistake, which was all the time, she never looked at him like he was an idiot. Never called him names, never berated him. Sometimes they had to 'leave it for now,' but she never called it giving up. They never gave up.

And when he did something right—when he answered the questions properly, when his spells turned into something close to what they were supposed to be—her face lit up with pride. Once, she got so excited she squealed too loud and clapped her hands, and Madam Pince came over to give them that pinched look that matched her name.

It occurred to Greg that Granger was the only one who ever seemed proud of anything he'd done.

He rather liked the feeling. It made him feel good to know someone was proud of him.

One particularly successful session, he told her a joke, and they both laughed. He liked the way her laugh sounded—full and real and not at all mean or ugly. He liked being the one to have made her laugh.

He realized that day, that he'd actually made friends with the swotty Gryffindor.

 _That_  did not feel good. Because  _that_  could only mean trouble.

* * *

For some reason, Draco had it in for those three Gryffindors. It didn't matter what they were doing, or even if they were minding their own business, he couldn't bear to see them walking down the halls, breathing his air, taking up space in his school.

Greg never could understand it, but he went along with it, because that was just the way of things. Whenever Draco wanted to cause them trouble, usually Greg was happy to help and laughed right along with him.

But this time Greg wasn't laughing.

Granger had found herself cornered, and with Crabbe detained by McGonagall, it was only him and Draco. He had no idea where Granger's friends were, but she didn't seem at all concerned at the foul things that were currently spilling out of Draco's mouth.

She should have been intimidated, because when Draco was in a mood, he got nasty. Although, last time she'd punched him square in the face, so perhaps she thought she could get away with it again.

At any rate, he was in a very uncomfortable situation.

Granger had been helping him a lot, and he actually rather liked her. He didn't want to see Draco bullying her. It gave him an anxious, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach.

But he didn't dare say anything. Draco was the leader of their little group, and he told his father every single offensive thing that ever happened to him.

More than once, Greg had felt the sting of a jinx on his backside when Goyle Sr had caught wind of the way Goyle had failed to get further into the Malfoy family's favor.

As he watched Draco crowding Granger, anger sparking out of both of them, he had an idea for how to get Draco away without getting himself into trouble.

He didn't have enough time to think it through, but he raised his wand, aimed it at Draco's unprotected back, and said "Confundo!" just like they'd practiced.

There was no telltale light, of course, and Greg held his breath, wondering if it had worked. His eyes locked with Granger's, and the shocked expression on her face as she realized what he was trying to do, made him feel warm all over.

For a fleeting second, he imagined that was what a hero felt like.

Draco turned quickly to look back at him, confusion in his eyes as he looked at Greg standing there still holding his wand outstretched.

It was not the confusion of a Confundus Charm. It was the normal confused look that people often had on their faces when Goyle did something unexpected.

In this case, it wasn't unexpected at all—he'd failed.

Draco looked at Granger again, bewildered. He was probably thinking Greg had been aiming at her.

Granger used his momentary distraction to shove her way past the both of them. Her shoulder bumped Draco particularly hard, and he sneered at her, obviously aware his moment of intimidation had been lost.

But as she walked away, her eyes darted up to Greg's, and he caught the question that lingered there.

* * *

He wasn't sure if he would find her in their usual spot, at the usual time. But she was there, scribbling away on a parchment, like always.

Awkwardly, he shuffled up to her and pulled out his customary seat.

She laid her quill on the table, her face unreadable.

Gone was the quiet understanding they'd shared over the last few weeks, replaced instead with tension hanging thick in the air.

Greg's skin crawled with anxiety. The altercation in the hall had just reminded him of the many things that separated them. Trying to reconcile all the things he'd been taught about Mudbloods, and all the things he'd heard about Gryffindors, with the incredibly smart and patient girl who tutored him three times a week…it was making his head hurt.

And it was making something near his chest hurt.

And his stomach.

There was something wrong with the way the world worked.

"I-I'm sorry," he blurted out, still looking down at the table, unable to meet her eye. "I'm sorry about Draco. The—the things he said."

"You didn't say them," she corrected him, mildly.

Neither of them had to mention that he'd said similar things before, and even worse, probably.

He grimaced, thinking how strange it was that he couldn't imagine saying them to her now.

"I'm sorry, anyway," he said, not knowing what else he could do. "They're not true."

The little laugh she let out drew his attention up to her, and he saw that she was smiling at him. It made the corners of his mouth want to turn upwards.

He couldn't decide if he was pleased he'd made her laugh again.

"They never are," she said, with a shrug. "People like Draco seem to love spewing out hatred with little regard for the truth."

He didn't even care that she'd just insulted his friend. He was just glad that she didn't seem to be upset with him.

Her eyes grew dark and serious again. "Thank you, though, for stepping in. I know that wasn't something you would normally do."

Greg felt the tips of his ears burning. Not just for the thanks, which he rarely received from anyone, but because they both knew that he'd really done nothing. His spell hadn't even worked.

He settled for a shrug of his own, the sting of his failure leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His fingers scratched and picked at the tiny grooves in the table, looking for something to keep himself occupied so he wouldn't contemplate again how big of a fuck-up he always seemed to be.

For several moments they sat in silence.

Then, he felt a hand on his arm, stilling his movements.

"I've been thinking," Hermione began, "about how we could help you with your spellwork."

He didn't think there was much that could be done for his spell-work. His grades had improved marginally since she'd begun tutoring him, but all in all he'd shown little progress with his spells.

"Remember when we were working on reading?" Hermione asked, continuing her line of thought. "When we slowed down and focused on the order of the letters, and paid attention to each word, you started reading much better."

It was true. At first he was reading much more slowly, but as he got the hang of focusing closely on the words, he became much more confident in his reading skills.

"What if we did the same thing with the spells?" she suggested. "We focus on the details—the angle of your wand, the inflection of the spell. We run down each item like a checklist. When you're ready, we let the spell fly."

She was still trying to help him. It was even more obvious that he needed the help, he guessed.

He didn't say anything, but since he rarely did, she just continued looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to respond.

When he sighed dramatically, as If reluctant to get back to work, she grinned at him.

"Go on," she said, "take out your wand."

He did so, signaling he was ready to practice, and happy to have things back to normal.

They started with a simple spell, one he already knew well, and walked through it step by step. Each step made him feel more confident as he focused on it, visualizing the spell.

She was smiling so much more today, and every time she did, it splintered his focus for just the tiniest moment as he mostly just wanted to smile back at her.

When she put her hand on his, showing him the wandwork in slow motion, he felt all of his concentration fly right out of his head. Her hand was small and warm—her touch light and gentle, as if he was the one fragile and breakable, instead of an overly large and overly clumsy oaf.

He had to struggle to focus on the spell and not on the feel of her skin.

Each time she touched him, the first spell would go askew. He would have accused her of doing it on purpose, because there was a twinkle in her eye that made him think she was laughing at him—except he knew she never laughed at him.

"Concentrate," she'd say, her hand still on his. Then she'd talk through the spell again until she could see he had it firmly in mind.

Even with those little setbacks, though, they made tremendous progress, compared to their usual sessions. With spell after spell they were able to find a measure of success.

Hermione was delighted, almost as if she'd accomplished it all on her own.

Greg felt his face flush at her praise. He could hardly believe he'd done all of those spells himself.

"Let's try the Confundus now," she said, still excited.

But bringing up his failed spell just embarrassed him all over again. He felt himself clamming up. The anxiety that had briefly lifted from him while they'd been working, settled heavily about his shoulders.

It was one thing to do spells in practice, when you had someone coaching you. It was another thing to be able to do them quickly and easily, like other wizards did, like Draco did.

Her face fell as she looked at him, the mood suddenly spoiled.

"Gregory," she said, softly.

He couldn't help but be surprised at his name coming from her mouth.

It sounded different when she said it, somehow. It wasn't the irritated snap and sneer of 'Goyle' or the carelessly casual 'Greg.' She made Gregory sound like someone who was respectable and capable.

"Gregory," she said again, and there was a pull in his stomach, in his chest, that drew his eyes up to hers. "I know what people say about you."

Of course she did. Everyone knew.

"They're wrong," she said. "Just like they're wrong about me, they're wrong about you. You're more than just a muscle-bound athlete. You're more than just the brawn to enforce someone else's brain. You're not stupid. You don't have to go along with whatever path is set before you by whichever wizard holds the most power in your life. You can be more. You  _are_ more."

Part of him wanted to believe her, wanted to see what it was she saw that kept her trying to teach him things he could never do. He rather thought he'd like to be that person. He liked who he was when he was with her. It felt nice.

The other part of him was warning him that those were dangerous thoughts. He was not meant to be anything  _more_. He had a place. People like him always had a place, and it was always beside someone who was smarter and more powerful. Once you were in your place, you could never leave.

She sighed a little at his lack of response.

He was taking too long to think over her words. He always took too long.

Shaking off the prickly warning feeling, he smiled at her, just a slight thing, and was pleased when she beamed back at him.

Apparently, that was enough for her to know that he'd heard and appreciated her words. He didn't  _believe_  them, but he decided he would keep them, save them up for later. He liked the way they sounded. He liked the way they made him feel.

And maybe they'd be true one day.

* * *

**_Later_ **

_It had been months since anyone had caught a glimpse of Hermione Granger._

Some said she had been injured in the fight that had brought down Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, but no one had been able to confirm it. All they knew was that the Order had gone to ground, presumably nursing their heroes back to fighting form, and further delaying this already extended war.

No one knew the fate of The Boy Who Lived, but with rare potion supplies being heavily guarded, it was only a matter of time before someone was desperate enough to go out and collect the items an overflowing hospital ward would need.

Since Snape, the traitor, had died several weeks back, there was much speculation about who was responsible for brewing their Potions.

Now Greg had the answer to that question in front of him.

It was extremely unwise for her to be out alone. The price on her wand was exceptionally high, and though it was true a lone person had a better chance of collecting plants unseen, they should have sent someone else. Her capture, on top of the injuries to Weasley and Potter would be a huge blow to the Order.

He thought to himself that the Concealment Charms placed on him must have been very good. She would never have missed the fact that he was hiding out on this side of the mountain, just waiting for someone to come by to harvest the dittany that was at peak blooming season.

Greg's heart stuttered an unsteady rhythm as he realized the two of them were suddenly at the center of a pivotal moment in the war. It could hardly be the first time for Granger, but it was an unfamiliar place for Greg, who was far more used to playing a supportive role.

For a brief moment, he hesitated, recalling his orders. They'd had him repeat it back to them three times, as they always did, the patronizing looks on their faces long since having given way to boredom, as 'making sure Goyle understood' was just another part of the routine.

But he wasn't as stupid as they thought he was. She'd taught him that.

He moved forward quietly, confidently, running through the wand movements in his head, repeating the incantation and the exact inflection to himself. When he had enough time to prepare, to run over every step of a spell, just like she'd taught him, he always executed it correctly. He just had to make sure he didn't miss.

He saw her movements stop, as if she sensed him through the charms, but it was too late.

"Confundo," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He was pleased to see that the spell went perfectly. And that he hadn't missed.

* * *

 

"Eh, what's this, Goyle?"

"Found him asleep when I went to go fetch him. Jinxed him for being an idiot and brought him in." Goyle shrugged, not at all concerned about the man in an unconscious heap on the floor. He didn't care if jinxing him meant he'd have to lug the body around. For someone else it would probably be a stupid idea, but he was big enough that there was no strain on him.

"Fuck. The Dark Lord is not going to be happy if one of  _them_  slipped by. I should send someone over to the West side to check it out."

Goyle looked down at his shoes. "I already thought to check the West side while I was there, it was undisturbed." Except, of course, for the Confunded woman who had been convinced to gather dittany there instead of where he was on watch on the South side. And after he'd knocked the other Death Eater unconscious, of course.

Selwyn seemed impressed at his foresight. "Good job, Goyle. I'll be sure to let the Dark Lord know of your competence."

Goyle just shrugged again, trying not to think of wind-blown curly hair.

He hoped she'd retrieved what she needed. And that she made it back to the Order safely.

As he walked off, he thought about what he'd just done.

It was a foolish thing to do. Downright stupid. They could lose the war because of this one, tiny thing.

But he'd never prided himself on smart thinking. Everyone knew Gregory Goyle was dumb as a box of rocks. And twice as ugly.

**Author's Note:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW), meaning all reviews welcome, including constructive criticism.


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